


Ready, Aim, Fire

by pippinmctaggart



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Behind the Scenes, Bickering, Episode Filming, Gen, Shenanigans, humour and ridiculousness, jeremy being jeremy, the challenge that never was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22328398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippinmctaggart/pseuds/pippinmctaggart
Summary: It's time for the three boys to film a new challenge. Andy and Porter suggest something something a bit different this time.
Relationships: Jeremy Clarkson & Richard Hammond & James May
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	Ready, Aim, Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the CHMS 2019 Secret Santa Challenge on DW for Crotalusviridis, who requested the prompt "WHERE DID YOU FIND A ROCKET LAUNCHER?!" This is the ridiculous (and yet predictable) answer.
> 
> Set back during the good old days of Top Gear.

"Absolutely not," Jeremy thundered, slapping his palm on the table top. "I have written every word in every script myself and I'm not fucking stopping now."

"Not even remotely true, Clarkson," Richard Porter said, unfazed. He leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head, the sun filtering through the streaked window highlighting his brown hair.

"I didn't say you didn't _help_ ," Jeremy muttered, caught out. "But writing the scripts from scratch is _mine_." He crossed his arms on his chest, a belligerent look on his face. "I write this show."

"And you still will, you bellend," Andy said, and dropped his pen on the table. "Just not this one challenge. Christ, you're the one who said we had to look for some fresh ideas."

"Fresh ideas, yes, not new writers," he said mulishly, ignoring the point.

Porter waved one hand. "Again, not new. Very not new."

Jeremy let out a snort of laughter despite himself. "Fuck off," he said, and then sighed explosively. "Fine, tell me again. I stopped listening after 'Porter will write'."

"I'm shocked." Andy glared at him. "Once more for the selectively hard of hearing, then. We will film this challenge in a month. Porter will write the script, but if you'd let me finish earlier, you would have learned that the vast majority of it will be unscripted." He held up one hand to forestall Clarkson. "I know it's a risk. We've scheduled in extra time for shooting fillers and pickups, and we can reshoot certain scenes with a script if necessary. What we want more than anything is to capture that first properly genuine reaction from you three."

"Reaction to what?" Jeremy demanded.

"What you each show up with for the challenge," Porter said. "You always know in advance, because everyone collaborates, makes sure there's interest in the choice of the three cars, you write the script, and while the exact outcome may not be determined, you've all got an idea of how it's going to go."

"This one time," Andy added, "it will all be a total surprise to you three. You'll each get your own build team, and you are not, I repeat _not_ , allowed to share any details or give any hints to the others, on pain of death."

Jeremy finally looked interested. "What's the challenge? And what's the budget for the build?"

Andy shook his head. "You'll find out when the other two do, you fucking cheat. You don't get a head start."

Jeremy grinned. "It was worth a try. Fine, we'll give it a go. What's the worst that could happen? It's a failure and the fans shout and complain, and we tell them 'this is why the bloody thing is scripted, you ungrateful bastards'."

"There's that positive attitude we've all come to rely on," Andy said dryly. "Right. Pre-production meeting next Tuesday. Hopefully Hammond won't be _too_ late."

Panting, Richard hurried into the board room they'd commandeered for the meeting. "Sorry. Sorry. I'm here."

"So are the rest of us," Jeremy said, his voice dripping with acid. "As we have been for quite some time now." 

"I know, I know. Sorry," he said again, shedding his jacket and sitting in an empty chair before rifling through his bag to pull out a battered notebook. He looked around with a cheerful smile. "Ready."

"Right," Andy began, tapping his sheaf of papers on the table in front of him. "The challenge for episode seven. It will be filmed at the Otterburn Army Training Centre on June 25th and 26th. It's a three-header, you'll each be responsible for your own build, and it's possible we'll need you three for both days, so keep them free. The build budget is nine thousand pounds—"

"So, three grand each?" Richard said, his head bent over his notebook.

"No. Nine grand each."

Richard's head snapped up, and everybody looked surprised except Andy and Richard Porter. "Nine each?"

Andy grinned. "Yep. Clarkson, your frankly unnecessary little jaunt to the Amalfi Coast is off, you can film that piece in Whitby. If you want a holiday, go on your own penny."

"Whitby?" Jeremy bellowed. "Now wait one bloody minute—"

Andy continued on, raising his voice to be heard. "The challenge is called Ready, Aim, Fire, and the task is to hit—"

"No, to _destroy_ ," Porter corrected with relish.

"Right. To destroy a target at a distance of at least two hundred feet. Your weapon of choice must be mounted on a working vehicle capable of manoeuvering it into position and away again. That's why the larger budget for this one: not only does your weapon have to work, but your vehicle does as well."

"Two hundred feet isn't that far," James ventured. "How big is the target?"

"Bigger than a breadbox. Smaller than Westminster."

Jeremy made a face of disgust. "That's not a challenge. I'll just bring a 50 Cal."

Hammond's eyes widened. "I wonder if I can get my hands on a Gatling gun?"

"Let me finish," Andy said, and he paused a moment as if enjoying himself. "The one hard and fast rule—besides you keeping your build a secret from the others—is _no guns_."

Richard and Jeremy looked blank. "No guns?"

James smiled. "I think the phrase you're looking for, chaps, is 'oh, cock'."

The day of the challenge dawned clear and mild. Unusually, Clarkson was not the first to arrive. He'd rung Andy to say his team had been caught up in a long tailback thanks to an accident just south of York, but that they were on their way.

James was the first to arrive—in fact, he'd been camped at a nearby caravan park for the past three days as he and his team built their weapon on-site. In the _car park_ on-site, at least, as that was the closest the military boffins would allow them to the live-fire area they'd be filming in. James wasn't concerned, though—while his weapon couldn't have been transported there via the motorways, his vehicle could manage the short off-road trip to the field they'd reserved for the challenge. And that morning, with a stomach full of Malt Wheats and a cup of tea in hand, James happily oversaw the move from the car park, the film crew capturing the whole event, and he waited for Hammond to arrive.

It wasn't long before an elderly but sturdy-looking Land Rover Defender pickup made its bumpy way across the field towards James. There was no rear canopy, but standing in the back was a tall wooden box, hiding whatever Hammond's weapon of choice was.

There was no hiding James's. 

As his crew trickled onto the field in several more cars, parking well away from the two presenters, Richard climbed out of his Defender, looking positively gobsmacked. "You're joking," he said, looking up, and then looking at James, and then looking up again. "You're bloody joking. Does it work?"

"Of course it does," James said, a well-deserved touch of smugness in his voice. "It took us three days to build it here, and we could only test it in the evening once the car park emptied out, but it works."

"It's enormous, James." Richard began to laugh. "I can't believe you built a bloody _trebuchet_."

James grinned. "I'll save the details for when the big oaf gets here. What did you bring, Hammond?"

"Ah! Well," he said, leading James and the camera men over to his vehicle, but he suddenly stopped. "Hang on—we were supposed to be able to transport our weapons. If you built that thing here, you've already lost!"

"Wrong," James replied, looking content. "We have to be able to manoeuvre it into position on the field and away again. I can do that. The rules said nothing about it having to be transported here on the roads."

Richard raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. Three days after I'd bought all the lumber, I called Wilman to double check."

Richard laughed. "That does sound like you, yes. So how are you moving it onto the field, then?"

"It's built onto a flatbed trailer, which we cobbled together out of a couple of old heaps, but since it doesn't have to be road legal, it'll do the job."

"I was so focused on the size of it I didn't even notice the wheels underneath. Nice. All right, come here then, and let me show you what I've done." Richard climbed up into the back of his Defender, making sure with a glance that the camera crew was still filming. "As you can see, I've got a Land Rover Defender TDi 110 pickup, perfect for transporting weapons out of sight on the public motorways. My box—my armaments box, if you will—is a recent addition, and is hinged for easy opening, though it can be padlocked for security."

"While you're transporting your weapons up and down the country on the public motorways," James commented. 

"Precisely. Now," Richard continued, unlatching the clips at the top and bottom of the corner of the plywood box furthest from James. The box was only a foot shorter than he was. "I just have to—oh. Oh, shit." The sheet of plywood that acted as a door to his weapons cabinet sagged drunkenly for a moment before he could catch it, and the hinges broke away allowing the wood to fall over and clatter against the rear wheel arch. "Ah. That's not gone well." He gave the plywood a shove towards the rear of the Defender. "James, can you just help me—"

"Sorry, no. Bad back, I'm afraid." He didn't look remotely sorry.

Richard rolled his eyes and managed to push the door out, letting it fall onto the ground with a thud. He nearly tumbled out headfirst after it, but was able to catch himself just in time. "Right. Good," he panted. "Okay. Let me get the rest of it." He fought to move the remaining heavy, three-sided cabinet, the open side not visible to James and thus still hiding whatever was inside.

"Oh, for God's sake," James muttered. "Just _tell_ me what you brought."

"No, no," Richard gasped, leaning almost horizontal as he began to shove the tall box across the bed of the vehicle. "Almost ready for the—big reveal."

When he'd worked the box far enough out of the way, James's eyebrows rose as he got his first look. "Is that a _crossbow_?"

"Yes." Richard gave one last mighty push, toppling the wooden box to the ground where it landed on the other plywood sheet with a loud bang. He stood up, breathing heavily and grinning. "Yes, it is."

James walked closer once the coast was clear. The compound crossbow sat on a wooden plinth, secured there for travel with two bungee cords. It looked to be nearly a metre long and half a metre wide, and the string—though it appeared heavy enough to be called a cable—ran between two cam pulleys. All in all, it looked to be a shoulder-fired weapon for someone more Jeremy's size than Richard's.

"Why, precisely," James asked, leaning his arms on the side of the truck bed, "did you need an entire armaments box for a crossbow, instead of just putting the bloody thing on the seat beside you?"

Richard gestured to the wooden base underneath the weapon. "Because I need me plinth to rest it on for a steady shot, and to store my bolts—and besides, the rozzers frown on weapons within easy reach in the vehicle for some reason. So I made a box!"

"And why a crossbow? We're not hunting deer, Hammond."

"How do you know?" Richard countered. "We might be. A deer is bigger than a breadbox and smaller than Westminster, isn't it?"

"There's not likely to be many deer wandering around in a live fire range, you moron. Besides, they're not going to have us murdering Bambi on television." James crossed his arms on his chest. "What if it's a shed? How are you going to destroy a shed with a crossbow?"

"Aha," Richard said, and held up one finger. "I have thought of that. Well, not specifically 'what if it's a shed', but my ammunition will take care of anything that's inanimate." He pulled a strange looking projectile with a large, bulbous head out of a storage space in the side of the plinth. 

"What is _that_?" James asked. 

"This," Richard said with great enjoyment, brandishing it on two open palms, "is an explosive-tipped bolt." 

James blinked. "How explosive?"

"Well—I'm not entirely sure," he hedged. "But if the target is a shed, then even if it doesn't blow it up, it will at least set it on fire!"

"What if it's a cement shed?"

"It's not going to be cement," Richard scoffed, and then frowned. "Oh god. You don't think it'll be cement, do you?"

Half an hour later Richard and James stood near the trebuchet, each with a cup of tea in hand, while the crew set up a dolly in the field, ready to film the three presenters moving their vehicles into place. Several cameramen stood nearby, filming them in case any amusing conversation happened. "What do you think he'll bring?" Richard asked, trying to oblige.

"Clarkson? Knowing him, a tank."

Richard laughed. "For nine thousand quid? Not likely."

"No, I suppose not."

He glanced over James's shoulder, and his eyes widened. "A Vauxhall Astra convertible?"

James snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. What sort of weapon could he possibly carry in a Vauxhall Astra convertible that would destroy a shed?"

"I don't know why you're so fixated on it being a shed, James. And you might want to take a look at what's just arrived." He began to laugh.

Just as James turned, Jeremy pulled up beside them in a spray-painted lime green Astra with the soft top down, grinning like mad. "I see your faces, and you are surprised," he announced as he unfolded himself from behind the wheel. "James, this _must_ be yours," he added gesturing up at the trebuchet behind the other two. "There's far too much maths involved for it to be Hamster's."

Richard nodded vigorously in agreement. 

"I do hate to admit it when it was your idea, Slow, but that is brilliant. What's the range on it, and how in God's name did you get it here?" Jeremy asked, walking down the side of it to take a closer look as one camera followed him and the other stayed on Richard and James. 

James explained his car park build, his nearby overnight caravan, and his tests in the car park the evening before. "With my lightweight projectile, I managed two hundred and ten feet, and I reckon my heavier weight will go at least two hundred and fifty. You see, it all comes down to the ratio, and the ideal ratio for a trebuchet is considered to be one hundred thirty three to one counterweight to projectile, and the swing arm—"

Jeremy interrupted him. "May, instead of rabbiting on about ratios and weights, which is so mind-numbingly boring that nobody but you could possibly care, answer me this one all-important question: what are you using to transport it into place?"

Taking a deep breath as if to fortify himself, James finally pointed out the car he'd be using to tow his trebuchet across the fields.

Jeremy and Richard burst out laughing. "A SsangYong Rexton, May? Are you mad? What a piece of rubbish!" Jeremy crowed.

"Not at all," James argued. "That SUV has a selectable four-wheel drive mode, low-range mode, hill descent control, and because I got the automatic, it has the maximum towing ability. While I admit it is somewhat elderly and lacking in style, it's perfect for towing this much weight across a few fields. And you're hardly one to laugh, not when you've turned up in an abusively green Vauxhall Astra, Clarkson."

"He does have a point," Richard immediately joined in, and said, "Why _did_ you paint it that particularly painful shade of chartreuse?"

"It's camouflage," Jeremy said.

"In what environment? A cartoon?" James scoffed.

"The man at the shop where I bought the paint said it would be the perfect colour. Oddly enough, he said he had it already mixed up and ready to go," Jeremy said, and went to unlock the boot of his car. "I am now about to astonish you with my incredibly brilliant choice of weapon." He reached down and lifted out a long, olive green tube with some squat rectangular pieces mounted on the top.

"Is that—" James began.

Richard cut him off, shouting, "WHERE DID YOU FIND A ROCKET LAUNCHER?!"

"I found three of them, actually," Jeremy said, plainly proud of himself. "They're single use, so I brought three in case there's more than one target. My genius knows no bounds."

James's eyebrows lowered. "You can't use that! The rules said no guns!"

"What do you mean, I can't use it?" he demanded. "It's not a gun, it's an rocket delivery system."

Richard threw up his hands in disgust. "A rocket delivery system, which is also known as A GUN, you utter, utter MORON!"

"It's not a gun!"

"It is!"

"It isn't!"

"It bloody well is!"

"It isn't!" Jeremy protested. "A gun uses bullets!"

James raised his voice to drown them both out. "A gun is defined as a long, metal tube out of which a projectile is fired with explosive force."

His eyebrows nearly in his hairline with annoyance, Richard simply gestured the length of the rocket launcher with both hands several times.

"It isn't a gun," Jeremy persisted. Just then one of the crew came into shot wearing the ritual white lab coat, and handed Jeremy a golden envelope. "Aha, our challenge has arrived. Let's move on, gentlemen, shall we?" He tore open the envelope and read the card it contained. "'The producers don't believe you could hit the side of a caravan from _two_ feet away. You will now move your weapons into the marked positions and aim them at your target two _hundred_ feet away. You have three shots to prove the producers wrong. Your goal is to have nothing left at the end but debris.'" Jeremy looked at his two co-presenters. "How hard can that be?"

"Don't say that!" Richard groaned.

Hours later, with many stops and starts for filming the move, all three presenters had their weapons in place. It had, astonishingly, gone smoothly. Jeremy had climbed into his car and immediately bounced and rattled his way across the hillside so quickly that he had to return to the car park to repeat the trip for the cameramen to get multiple angles. The second trip went equally well, and he made his way to his indicated spot in the mostly-flat field where the challenge was being held. 

Richard followed, his aged Land Rover Defender making the off-road trip look easy, though not as speedy as Jeremy's. The only casualty was the passenger door handle, which fell off on a particularly rough bit of the hillside.

Even James, despite the size and weight of his wooden trebuchet, managed to manoeuver his way into position with no calamities, although it was close when the film crew stopped him to reset their dolly and he nearly couldn't get the homemade trailer to move again. To his immense relief—and the disappointment of the other two—he was not required at any point to back the trebuchet up, an operation that would have almost certainly ended in disaster. He unhitched the car and moved it out of the way.

The two vehicles and trebuchet were parked in line, fifty feet apart from each other. James's weapon faced the field, Richard's Defender was backed up to the line to allow a straight shot for his crossbow, and Jeremy's Astra was, oddly, parked broadside.

Andy approached the presenters as they gathered behind Richard's vehicle. "Right. We'll break now for lunch, there's a table set up for you three on the other side of the catering truck. You're to stay there until we're ready to go again so we can film you seeing the targets for the first time. The move went well, so I'm hopeful we can finish this up today as long as we don't dawdle too much."

Thus ordered, Jeremy, James, and Richard retreated behind the catering truck. Forty-five minutes later, full of sandwiches, crisps, and coffee, and with a hint of pink on their faces from sitting in the June sun, they were recalled. Waiting for the clapper board to mark that the cameramen were recording, they rounded the cab of the catering truck to behold their targets for the first time.

Richard and Jeremy burst out laughing and James clenched a fist and said, "Yes!"

"Chaps," Jeremy announced with a grin, "We must not fail. By the end of the day today, those three hideous, hateful caravans _must_ be destroyed."

"Agreed," said Richard, and then added, "You may be cheating, Clarkson, but I'll still enjoy watching you blow that caravan into a thousand tiny pieces."

Richard was the first to go. He did a piece to camera about the explosive tips on his arrows, but without a script, it was a bit long-winded and so he moved on. "They can edit that out. All right, I just have to cock the crossbow," he said, removing the bungee cords and picking up the weapon, matching actions to words, "by putting my foot in the stirrup here, then positioning this, erm, rope cocker and giving it a good pull. Ooh, that's surprisingly difficult, but...ah, got it! Now to load the bolt, give it a good push until it clicks, and I'm ready. Here goes." He rested his elbows on his wooden plinth, took careful aim, shouted, "Firing in three...two...one!" And he squeezed the trigger. 

The crossbow gave a slight recoil, there was a quiet _thwing_ as the bolt left the flight groove, and immediately there was an explosion of dirt and smoke a foot in front of the small, red-striped white Coachman that was Richard's target.

"You missed!" Jeremy crowed from his car, lowering his binoculars. "Loser!"

"I nearly hit it!" Richard protested, still grinning despite the failure. "My crossbow is _brilliant_ , and now I've got the range, the next shot will be right through that window. Fact."

"We'll see about that," James called, and leaned down to pick up the trigger rope. For the sake of the film, he explained the ratio of counterweight to weight required to fling his projectile, and about the utilization of the transfer of gravitational potential energy into kinetic energy, but it wasn't long before Hammond and Clarkson began haranguing him to shift his arse and get _on_ with it already. "Philistines. Very well. Prepare to be amazed, chaps." He stood back to eye up his shot one last time and, satisfied, shouted, "Launching in three...two...one!" He yanked the rope that pulled the trigger, freeing the swing arm to begin its swift rotation.

It was an impressive sight as the sling holding a fifteen pound bowling ball dragged along the bottom platform, then up and up and over and the sparkly blue ball was set free to sail through the air. 

Richard and Jeremy were both already laughing with glee as James's first shot soared far over the roof of the Mistral caravan and buried itself with an audible _whump_ in the ground beyond it. 

"James, that wasn't even _close_!" Richard whooped.

"Trust May to pick a weapon that's been obsolete for four hundred years," Clarkson jibed. "It's my turn now, so watch and learn, gentlemen, watch and learn."

Richard snorted. "Learn how to completely ignore all the rules of competition and take part with a banned gun."

"It's not a gun!" Jeremy shouted as he put on his ear protection. He pulled the pin from the rear of the first of his rocket launchers, removed the round end cover from the tube, and pulled until it had telescoped out half as long again and locked into place. He raised the small sight, released the safety, shouldered his rocket launcher and sat sideways in the driver's seat, the door wide open, his feet planted firmly on the grass.

"Um, mate, I don't think you can—" Richard said at the same time as James began, "Don't be stupid, you can't sit in—"

"Firing in three—two—one!" Jeremy bellowed at the top of his lungs, took a moment to get his sight in, and then squeezed the large black trigger on top of the barrel with two fingers. 

A blast of smoke, gas, and a flash of fire shot out of the back of the rocket launcher as the rocket flew from the front, skimming over the top of the Avondale Dart, missing it by no more than an inch. Meanwhile, the passenger side window of Jeremy's car blew apart in a thousand pieces, bits of door trim went flying, and a moment later flames began to flicker up from the ruched faux-leather upholstery.

Jeremy leapt to his feet, tossing aside the used launcher. "Oh, shit," he said. "Shit...Richard? James? Do either of you have a fire extinguisher? It turns out that rocket launchers are a bit hot at _both_ ends."

Richard was laughing too hard to answer, leaning over with his hands on his knees, dragging in a deep breath in order to keep right on laughing. James didn't bother to answer and simply walked away, cackling loudly, to go and measure how far past his caravan the bowling ball had landed.

"Does _anyone_ have a fire extinguisher?" Jeremy called plaintively. "My car is actually quite on fire now."

Once Jeremy's car had been put out by the stand-by safety team, James had removed a precise amount of weight from the counterweight on his trebuchet, and his build crew had helped him pull the swing arm back down, it was time for round two. This time when Richard fired his crossbow, the bolt shattered the exact window he'd said it would, and he let out a roar of triumph, raising both arms and the crossbow in the air. However, the bolt kept on going, exploding as it burst through the opposite window, and thus did no damage beyond the two broken pieces of glass and a splintered window frame. "Oh. Well, that's somewhat disappointing," he said, deflating slightly. "I don't think anyone's astonished that Jeremy managed to set his car on fire, but I'd rather hoped my caravan would have joined it by now."

"Points for accuracy, though," James allowed. "Not something I'd expected from you, if I'm honest."

"Not something _I'd_ expected from me," Richard admitted with a grin. "All right, your turn. Think you can actually hit it this time?"

"Watch this," James said confidently. He reloaded the sling with another bowling ball and once again picked up the release rope.

Jeremy caught sight of the bright pink ball and sniggered. "Nice testicle, James. Decided you could live with just one, did you?"

"When they're this big, you only need one," James shot back, making Richard bark with laughter. After his countdown to launch, he yanked on the trigger rope and, bouncing on his toes, watched his ball sail around and over and then crash straight through the roof of his Mistral. "Wa-hey!" he cheered, and did his ridiculous victory jig, much to the disgust of the other two.

"All right, all right," Richard said, "Well done, but all you've managed is a hole in the roof, you pillock. That's hardly what I'd call destroyed."

"Just you wait," he said enigmatically. "I still have one shot left."

"A sad and pathetic attempt from a sad and pathetic old spaniel. I will show you what destruction is," Jeremy bragged, preparing his second rocket launcher for firing. This time, he climbed behind the driver's seat and stood on the rear seat. "I am like the Isis-ists in their pickup trucks," he said, then gestured to his car, "Only much more stylish."

"A Vauxhall Astra is stylish, is it?" Richard asked dryly.

"Shut up." He donned his ear protection, shouldered his weapon, aimed, and fired.

The rocket punched a hole in the side of the Dart just aft of the window, and a fraction of a second later the caravan rocked and the windows blew outwards—the large front window landing whole in the dirt a few feet away. Jeremy bellowed, "YEEEEESSSSS!" at the top of his lungs as smoke began to drift upwards. "This competition is MINE!" He climbed out of his car.

Richard and James were laughing, enjoying the damage almost as much as Jeremy was, despite that fact that the success was _Jeremy's_ , which normally rather took the shine off things. "No matter how it was done," Richard said, still chuckling, "I have to admit that is a glorious sight." Flames were now licking out of the windows, and there were ominous creaking and popping noises as dark smoke billowed out.

After a moment, Richard took a deep breath. "Right. My last chance to kill the caravan. Come on, Rich, petrolheads everywhere are counting on you." He climbed up into the back of his Defender and picked up his crossbow again, considering his Coachman. After cocking the bow, loading the last of his explosive-tipped bolts, and taking aim, he fired. 

The bolt entered through the broken window and, thanks to the angle at which he'd fired, buried itself in the opposite wall. The immediate explosion was much smaller than Jeremy's, but still set the curtains alight, and when the flaming cotton curtains landed on the polyester cushions, a conflagration was inevitable.

"I have done the thing!" Richard shouted. "I mean, yes, all right, this may take a while—" 

James's donkey bray of a laugh could be heard over Clarkson's incredulous, "A _while_?"

Richard rose up on tiptoe to try and get a better look inside the Coachman from whence issued a lazy trail of smoke, but from that distance the extra two inches of height made no difference. "Shut up! There was no time limit on how long the destruction took. My caravan is definitely on fire, and I have done the thing!"

"A tiny little fire from a tiny little man," Jeremy said with a grin as Richard rolled his eyes and mockingly pretended to laugh. "Well, May, you're the only one who hasn't destroyed your caravan. Why don't you just admit defeat now and we can all be off to the pub?"

"Not a chance, Clarkson," James said. "Sit down, shut your gob, and _watch this_." His trebuchet was already set to launch again, and he reached into the back of the SsangYong and pulled out a thick, black plastic bag roughly the shape of a large bowling ball, and after donning a pair of gloves, unwrapped it.

"James, why is your bowling ball wearing a floral nappy?" Richard asked, walking a little closer.

"It's not a nappy," James replied as he loaded the fabric-wrapped ball into the sling. Removing his gloves, he shoved his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and fished out his cigarette lighter.

"No," Clarkson said loudly in disbelief, even as James flicked his lighter and held it to the ball. With a soft _whoosh_ , the fabric burst into flames. 

"Launching the fire-breathing trebuchet in three...two...one!" James shouted, and pulled the trigger release rope. All three men—and a few of the crew, as well—cheered as the floral bowling ball, trailing a bright tail of fire, soared majestically towards the Mistral.

Twenty feet before it reached the roof of the caravan, though, their cheers turned to groans of disappointment as the wrapping came loose and fluttered to the ground, still burning gently as it landed in the dirt next to the wheel. The ball smashed through the roof eight inches away from the first hit, and James despairingly fisted both hands in his hair. "Noooo! Oh, it was _so close_!"

"Oh, mate," Richard said, laughing but with obvious sympathy. "Credit where it's due, that was a brilliant attempt."

Jeremy, sitting up on the back of his car with his feet on the rear seat, called, "May, as the youths of today would say, that was properly epic."

"I can't believe it!" James cried, staring at his mostly-intact Mistral. "I'm gutted."

"Chaps?" Jeremy suddenly rose, standing on the seat once again, looking out past the smoking remains of his caravan. "Do you see what I see? Is that…?"

Richard turned to look. "Is that another caravan?" he asked, baffled. "Why is there a fourth?"

"It's for meeeee!" Clarkson said gleefully, and reached down to pick up the last of his three rocket launchers, readying it to fire as he spoke. "The producers obviously knew I wouldn't need three shots to kill my Dart because I am known world-wide as an expert marksman, a crack shot, a—"

"A crack _pot_ ," Richard interjected. 

"Is there, or is there not," Jeremy said, glaring at him, "Another caravan that needs to be blown into oblivion?"

"Yes, fine, get on with it, then."

One last time, Jeremy clapped his ear protectors over his ears and then lined up his sights on the distant caravan. "Launching in three—"

James, hearing him begin the countdown, finally turned to see what was happening. His eyes tracked out to the last lonely caravan beyond the three ruined ones. "Hang on, is that—"?"

"Two—"

"That's MY caravan! All my things are in there!"

"One—"

"No!" James shouted, "Stop!"

Jeremy pressed down on the trigger, the blast flashed backwards as the rocket left the barrel, and a fraction of a second later James's caravan exploded into a ball of fire.

"Oh, he's going to be a very unhappy spaniel," Richard said to camera, _sotto voce_.

"You idiot, man!" James bellowed, incensed, and stalked over towards the Astra.

Jeremy pulled off his ear protectors and turned, grinning. "Did you see that? That was even better than the first one!"

"Why the hell did you do that?" James demanded.

"What? What do you mean 'why the hell did I do that'? It's a caravan, and I had a rocket launcher!"

"It wasn't _a_ caravan, it was _my_ caravan," James said, his face turning red. "The one I slept in for the past three nights."

"Then it probably needed sterilizing with flame, didn't it?" Richard pointed out helpfully, joining them.

"It's not my fault!" Jeremy protested. "Why did you park it on the field of fire, if you didn't want it to get turned into a thousand matchsticks?"

"I didn't park it there, I left it in the caravan park where it's been for the last three days! It had all my things in it! My travel alarm clock and my favourite pants and a book of poetry and I still had two bottles of wine left, you utter, utter cock!"

"Now, let's not get bogged down with 'oo blew up 'oo's caravan," Jeremy began, but just then he was interrupted by two lab-coated assistants. One of them brought in an easel with a typical challenge scoreboard on it, and the other handed Richard a small pile of envelopes.

"Right," Richard said. "I think we're now supposed to tot up the scores as decided by the producers, and declare a winner."

"Why?" Jeremy asked, and gestured at the two heaps in the distance in front of his car. "It's perfectly clear who the winner is."

"Except it isn't," Richard answered with exaggerated patience, "Or they wouldn't have brought this out for us to waste time on, now, would they? What's the first category?"

James, still fuming, pulled the covering piece of black cardboard off the top of the first column. " _Price_."

Richard picked up the marker from the ledge of the easel, and then opened the envelope marked 'price'. "Right. Our budget was nine thousand pounds, and we get one point for every quid under budget we finished. Jeremy, your grand total was…?"

Jeremy puffed his chest out. "Eight thousand, four hundred pounds."

"So that's six hundred points for you." He wrote it on the board in the row bearing the name Clarkson. "James?"

James smirked at Jeremy. "Eight thousand, three hundred and fifty."

"Six fifty for you, then. And my final budget was—" He cleared his throat and tried to look casual. "Five thousand, eight hundred pounds."

"Fifty-eight hundred?" James repeated, forgetting his annoyance with Clarkson. "How much were your bow and arrows?"

"My crossbow was thirteen hundred quid, and the bolts cost one seventy five apiece to make."

"You made those?" Jeremy demanded. "Why didn't you tell us? I would have immediately taken shelter in a bunker if I'd known _you_ made them."

"Ha ha ha," Richard said witheringly. "I didn't actually make them myself, an explosives expert did. Muppet."

"Hang on," James said, "That's eighteen hundred twenty-five. Which means your Defender cost three thousand, nine hundred and seventy five. How is that possible?" He turned to look at the vehicle in question.

"Ah," Richard said with a grin. "It may _look_ only slightly worn-in, but I couldn't get it above fifty at any point on the way here, the interior is catastrophically ruined and has a remarkably disturbing stench, and it has three hundred and twenty thousand miles on it. I fully expect it to just sort of sink down onto its axles and surrender at any minute. But it did what it was supposed to do, which was to get me into this field." He turned to the board and in the row next to his name, wrote down '3,200'. "That's a bit of a lead for me, then."

"Only for the moment. What's the next category?" Jeremy asked.

James removed the cover. " _Ready_. What the blazes does that mean?"

Richard opened the corresponding envelope and read the card. "'Unfortunately, all of your vehicles made it to the launch site with no disasters. You each earn one hundred points.' Well, that's easy enough, then." He quickly wrote 100 three times in the column. "Next?" 

Jeremy removed the black piece of cardboard this time. " _Aim_."

Richard shuffled the three cards left to find the right one. "'You each had three shots to hit your targets. One hundred points for each direct hit.'"

"We all missed on our first shot, didn't we? So two hundred each," Jeremy said. "I am not precisely clawing back the points the way I had hoped I would. Where's the category for sheer number of caravans destroyed?"

The numbers added to the board, James took the next piece of cardboard from the scoreboard. "Unsurprisingly, it's _Fire_."

Richard opened the penultimate envelope. "'The question is, how much fire?'" he read. "'One hundred points for partial destruction, two hundred points if it's decidedly irreparable, five hundred points if it's a smoking pile of rubble.'"

James made a face. "One hundred points for me, I'm afraid. I could try and argue that the damage to the roof is irreparable, but I don't think anyone else would agree."

"Definitely not," Richard said, writing 100 on the board for James. He craned around to look at his caravan. While the fire had been slow to take hold, it had finally gutted the Coachman, and even as he watched, the front end collapsed in a shower of sparks. Richard laughed. "I'd say that's five hundred points, and yes, Clarkson, before you start shouting again, you also get five hundred." He added that to the board. "Right, where are we at?"

James quickly totalled the board in his head. "Hammond, you have four thousand points. I have one thousand and fifty, and Clarkson, you've got one thousand four hundred. It's a bit of a runaway for Hammond, I'm afraid."

Richard looked pleased. "Right. Last column then, chaps. And it is…"

With a flourish, Jeremy pulled off the last piece of cardboard, and his face fell.

Richard and James burst out laughing. " _Is It A Gun?_ " James read out loud for the sake of the camera.

"I sense you might be in a bit of trouble, mate," Richard said, grinning. He opened the final envelope and read, "'The rule was NO GUNS. If you did not bring a gun, you get one thousand points. Since you _did_ bring a gun, Clarkson, it's minus—'"

His hands on his hips, Jeremy rolled his eyes. "Oh, let me guess." 

"How interesting," Richard continued, "It's minus one thousand four hundred points."

"Is it?" said Jeremy.

"Yes. Yes, it is."

" _Is_ it."

"It's not me, mate, that's what it says," Richard said cheerfully, brandishing the card. "I'm afraid that means you wind up in last place with zero points, James, you're second with two thousand and fifty, and with _five thousand points_ —" He thrust his arms up in the air in victory. "I WIN! You lose, and I WIN!"

"I'm so gutted my incendiary bowling ball didn't work," James said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Still smiling, Richard said, "To be honest, mate, the best thing that came out of today—other than the opportunity to rid the world of a few more caravans—is the phrase 'incendiary bowling ball'. That is my new favourite thing."

"I hate to agree with Hamster…" Jeremy said.

"But you do."

"But I do," he agreed, holding his hands wide. "No matter what the actual score was, if that flaming ball had crashed into your Mistral and set it ablaze, May, you would have won the day."

"By far," Richard added. "That trebuchet is brilliant, and you definitely have the moral victory, if not the actual victory. Which was mine. Because I won."

Jeremy turned to face the camera. "And on that incendiary bowling ball, goodnight!"

Two beats later, Richard eagerly asked, "Are we done? Good. James, can I try it?!"


End file.
